


Parting Words

by ShaeTiann



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaeTiann/pseuds/ShaeTiann
Summary: Dorian has always been something of an outlier in Tevinter society, but there are some forms of rebellion even he would never condone.





	Parting Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is old and got lost on my hard drive for about three years. I absolutely adore Dorian's companion dialogue, and was inspired to fill in the gaps.

The morning's mist had grown steadily heavier until it succumbed to gravity that afternoon in a wretched drizzle; tepid moisture had drifted through the open hatches and made fond acquaintance with every exposed surface. It glistened on the walls and percolated from the low ceilings every time the ship rolled.

Which sadly occurred far too often. That was to say: constantly.

Cursing under his breath, Dorian gripped the half-emptied bottle and took a bracing swig. The sweet mustiness of the grappa didn't soothe his stomach any, but the amber fumes fogging his mind handily disguised the motion of the deck beneath him. Leaning back against the smooth wall at the foot of his narrow bunk, he glared blearily through the thick bottle-glazing at the low clouds outside. This journey was starting to feel like one long mistake; the result had better be worth the effort. Three days aboard ship was three days too many; boats should only be intended for lighthearted afternoons with a picnic lunch and agreeable company. _In the sun._

"Never again," he muttered.

The words caught him unprepared, and he winced. For all he knew, there might not be an "again" to refuse. That disgusting Orlesian merchant had drained nearly all of his meagre resources; everything he'd brought with him save his staff and the robes on his back had been sold or pawned to book passage across the Waking Sea to Ferelden. “ _‘A sailor's worth is measured by his willingness to approach such obvious danger, messere,'_  my arse,” he parroted sourly at the bottle.

But after what Felix had written, Dorian felt there wasn’t time to wait for a better offer. No time, literally.

The remaining coin from the sale of his family crest hung heavier in his purse than it ought; guilt or possibly regret replacing his lightening burden. He might well be disowned for this.

He didn't regret it.

If he repeated it enough, he might even start to believe it.

The cursed damp had seeped into everything, chilling the air unreasonably; even inside his fine leather boots the flesh on his feet was near-melting from his bones. Ordinarily he could have dried himself with a thought, but only a fool casts fire spells within a wooden vessel. Desperate for a distraction, he pulled Felix's last letter from his pocket.

The words hadn't changed, but he read them again anyway, carefully, parsing the despairing message between the blandly friendly and uninformative words. "Father's new friends" was definitely the cultists Alexius had been telling him of, shortly before Dorian had dismissed him with a sneer.

_“No good can come of associating with zealots; one may as well light oneself on fire in the middle of the marketplace and be done with it._ ”

It was rather telling of how far Alexius had fallen that, rather than settle in for a comfortable debate of faith versus fanaticism as he might have done once before, the magister had grown increasingly frustrated and finally departed in smouldering disappointment.

_“I don't like this new you, Alexius. Don't you hear what you sound like? Only a fanatic fixates upon a single way of doing things, much less forcing others to follow him!"_

_“It's you who refuses to consider more extreme alternatives, Dorian,”_ Alexius had snapped back. _“Tevinter will never reclaim itself without a catalyst to open the eyes of every man and woman in the Magisterium. How has leading by example been working for you?”_

That had stung: attempting to lead by example had left Dorian essentially exiled to his estate in Minrathous, far enough from the Vyrantium Circle for his eccentricities to be ignored while still close enough to claim association. Far from being persuasive, however, the taunt merely hardened his resolve against such extremism.

Alexius' parting words had haunted Dorian's thoughts in the weeks since. And then someone had ripped a hole in the sky itself -- the shockwave of which had caused coastal flooding across the Waking Sea, and which was now being blamed for the unseasonable weather on top of the green gaps in the air spewing forth demons. Felix's letter had arrived soon after.

_Just what kind of catalyst_ were _you thinking of, Alexius?_

 

* * *

 

Getting to Redcliffe from the port at Jader was more difficult than it should have been. It might have been easier had he not been too proud to hide his Tevinter origins or the staff at his shoulder; but Dorian had never been one to feel shame for being precisely who he was.

Eventually he had found a merchant caravan whose master was unphased by the concept of magic. _“You do your part to keep the demons off our backs, we won’t tell the templars you were ‘ere.”_ It was, perhaps, the most charity Dorian could expect from Southerners, and he accepted it without complaint or protest. At least the man hadn't expected him to help _lift_ things.

As if the random Fade rifts spewing demons weren’t bad enough, the fighting in the Hinterlands made travel more hazardous. The caravan master had stopped in a tiny, nameless fishing village some distance north of Redcliffe on the western bank of Lake Calenhad, unwilling to risk passage further south. _“Bad enough with the bandits, but those templars will murder the lot of us for not turning you in, ser. Nothin’ personal.”_

A youth spent evading his tutors and the men his father had hired -- ostensibly intended to keep him safe, but also, Dorian suspected, intended to keep him _in line_ \-- had taught him to improvise. Rather than risk stumbling across angry templars -- the Fereldan variety, who were far less accommodating than the ones in Tevinter -- Dorian simply appropriated an abandoned rowboat and made his way across to the lamp-lit glow of Redcliffe after sunset.

He found Alexius already ensconced in the village's castle on its long promontory in the lake, the local teyrn and his soldiers gone. The villagers eyed Dorian with suspicion but let him be, possibly assuming he was yet another of Alexius' lackeys.

At the inn, he found the opportunity he needed. Despite his Tranquility, Clemence seemed to have a rebellious streak, or at least some personal ambition for survival: he had quickly deduced Dorian was neither part of Alexius' retinue nor interested in drawing undue attention to his presence.

The mage felt terribly for the other man; he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to have one’s connection to the Fade severed so completely. Despite Clemence’s insistence that the practice was necessary and preferable to possession or death, Dorian felt a slow rage building on his behalf.

After letting Dorian into the small room he had been granted, Clemence had arranged a message to be delivered to Felix. It was almost comically conspiratorial, the way they huddled together in that tiny space under the eaves; perhaps they were being overly cautious, but neither Dorian nor Felix trusted these Venatori.

"They're very interested in this Herald of Andraste. Claiming the Southern mages here seems almost an afterthought."

"It's entirely too coincidental. How far back did he actually send everyone?"

Felix sipped from his mug and pulled a moue at the unfamiliar Fereldan ale. "Would you believe he started sending people back to over a week before the disaster at the Conclave?"

"No! That precise? I wonder how he’s doing it?"

"He brought the rest of us back to only a couple days after it happened. I never want to do that again, by the way, feels like being turned inside-out."

Affecting a scandalised reaction, Dorian bemoaned the addition of two weeks onto Felix's youthful lifespan. “Are you tired, dear? Shall I fetch a tincture for your rheumatism?”

“Oh leave off, Dorian.”

“It can set in so quickly, you know.”

“You’re terrible.”

"This Herald seems to be the one to talk to. But I can't just approach them cold, they have no reason to trust another Tevinter. And it certainly wouldn't do to be spotted discussing things with them in the tavern like conspirators in an amateur drama."

They threw ideas around until Clemence returned some time later. Upon hearing the dilemma, the Tranquil said, "The chantry will be empty until the evening. Even the Revered Mother has preferred to be out among the people during the day." Dorian wondered if it was only his imagination that the emotionless man managed a note of smugness. It was a good idea, however, and they contrived a way to slip the Inquisition agents a note.

 

* * *

 

Being sequestered in the Tranquil's room through the night and into the next morning grated at Dorian's nerves, but it meant he was present when Clemence returned to tell him the Inquisition agents had arrived in the village. The mage used the narrow servants' stair in the back of the building to stay out of sight, bypassing the heart of Redcliffe village through overgrown greenery that smelled comfortingly of tannice and embrium.

He slipped in through the chantry’s side door and was debating whether to lounge in the Revered Mother's chair or pose grandly on the dais, when the bloodcurdling screech of an opening rift split the close air of the sanctuary.

_Clemence knew._

No, he couldn’t have. Nobody in the village had been fleeing screaming, and the bells that morning had announced worship normally. This rift was new.

"Of all the unfortunate timing..." Smiling grimly, Dorian summoned fire to his fingertips as the first demon appeared, throwing benches back against the walls in its rush to seize him.

There was no way to tell how long he fought them off; it may have only been minutes, but fighting on his own sapped his mental reserves. Where was that blasted Herald? Hopefully not jawing with Alexius in the tavern still. It would be quite embarrassing to be killed before he could offer his help. Hardly a good reflection on his abilities.

Exhausted, Dorian had resorted to striking the demons with his own staff when the chantry door opened. The last shade dissipated with a shriek and he spared a glance over his shoulder, prepared to warn the Revered Mother away.

Against the glare of the noonday sun outside, their faces were obscured, but the well-used armour the four newcomers bore was reassuring. The one in the front had a hand that was flaring the same shade of green as the rift as they drew weapons and slammed the door behind them.

_Better late than never, I suppose!_ Exhaustion had driven his planned greeting from his mind. Dorian settled for getting to the point.

"Good, you're finally here! Now help me close this thing, would you?"


End file.
